


yellowbird

by Anonymous



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Poetry, Isak Has Issues, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A portrayal of a much more jaded Isak throughout his years of touch-starvation and nothing but pain.But maybe it's not too late for him. Maybe someone will save him.
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60
Collections: Anonymous





	yellowbird

**Author's Note:**

> Check the tags before reading, there are some darker topics portrayed.

_there's a bluebird in my heart that_

_wants to get out_

_but I'm too tough for him,_

_I say, stay in there, I'm not going_

_to let anybody see_

_you._

Isak is 7 years old and his mother refuses his touch for the very first time, her body stiffening beneath his gentle fingertips as if they were branding her with his sins.

 _It’s okay,_ he says, _she doesn’t know what she’s doing, she’s not in her right mind, the deafening screams are those of a different woman._

But his heart aches and his nails dig into the palms of his small shaky hands until pain blooms within his body and he turns on his heel and runs to the safety of his room. The toys she had bought stare at him from the shelves his father had put up. 

His tears do not fall until his face is pressed up against the white pillowcase, the fabric slowly turning darker from the droplets.

Isak is 7 and the walls are closer to him than his mother’s love ever will be.

 _It’s okay,_ he says, _for he must’ve done something to deserve it._

_there's a bluebird in my heart that_

_wants to get out_

_but I pour whiskey on him and inhale_

_cigarette smoke_

_and the whores and the bartenders_

_and the grocery clerks_

_never know that_

_he's_

_in there._

He’s 13 and his mind had been bruised and bloodied far too many times to count and all his eyes can see is the messily rolled up blunt in Jonas’ calloused fingers and the grin spread across his tan face.

 _It’s okay,_ Jonas says, _it will feel good, I promise._

Jonas does not lie and so Isak puts on a brave face and inhales far too sharply and far too quickly. His lungs collapse and he coughs. 

The sound of Jonas’ laughter, he thinks, is a relief far sweeter than the weed held by his shaky fingers.

He does not say it. He does not look at Jonas. He does not tell him that the way their knees brush together where they are sat in the old treehouse makes his spine tremble with something he cannot yet name.

The blunt is pressed up against his thin lips and he takes in another breath.

It’s a gateway drug, they say, but no one ever speaks of the quiet it brings.

Isak is sitting at home with a bottle of brandy his father never bothered to hide beside him and a joint in his hand; Jonas is not with him, there is no laughter, there is no comforting brushing of denim against denim.

His mother and father scream downstairs. Their curses wrap around him just like their arms used to many years ago. With the substances within him he can almost pretend the feeling is comforting rather than smothering him like the smoke he had inhaled that very first time.

Isak is 13 and the burning of his throat as he takes another sip feels better than anything ever had before.

 _It’s okay,_ he says, _for his presence within the house must be suffocating them._

_there's a bluebird in my heart that_

_wants to get out_

_but I'm too tough for him,_

_I say,_

_stay down, do you want to mess_

_me up?_

_you want to screw up the_

_works?_

_you want to blow my book sales in_

_Europe?_

Isak is 15 and he does not remember the shade of his mother’s eyes.

Green, he thinks. But as he looks at the shades of the colour blooming across his skin, reminders of the hazy nights filled with vices far too dangerous to name, he does not know if he will ever truly find anything that will make him remember the exact hue of her irises.

The tears threatening to fall never do, he does not give them the chance, as there are no hands to wipe them away but his own and his knuckles hurt and his palms have permanent indents where his nails have dug in and the filth they have touched is far too much for him to handle.

Isak is 15 and he sits at the dining table and does not recognise the people beside him until they start to scream.

 _It’s okay,_ he says, _for they cannot stand to look at him without their vicious tongues threatening to speak the truth, it is his own fault for the sins blooming within his fragile mind._

_there's a bluebird in my heart that_

_wants to get out_

_but I'm too clever, I only let him out_

_at night sometimes_

_when everybody's asleep._

_I say, I know that you're there,_

_so don't be_

_sad._

Isak is 16 and there are hands gripping him tightly even though his head is swimming in the alcohol he had drunk what seems like moments ago. 

_It’s okay,_ the man slurs, his breath smelling of cigarettes and cheap beer as he pushes Isak’s pants down, _it will only hurt for a little bit._

It hurts for far too long and his nails do nothing to distract him and the alcohol in his blood is merely making him feel sicker than he already does and God, why him?

The bruises that will show tomorrow where his face is pushed up against the brick wall outside the club already hurt and all he can think about is how this is the first time anyone had touched him in months and he is _so_ lonely and there is bile in his throat an--

The screams heard from downstairs are comforting. The familiarity burns within him and he lets the tears stream down his face for the first time in eternity until the strangers in the house quiet down and he cannot control his trembles, he lets his body shiver beneath the blankets until the sun rises and he can no longer hide in the dark.

Isak is 16 and there’s no one holding him together.

 _It’s okay,_ he says, _for if he hadn’t behaved the way he had it never would’ve happened._

_then I put him back,_

_but he's singing a little_

_in there, I haven't quite let him_

_die_

_and we sleep together like_

_that_

_with our_

_secret pact_

Isak is 18 and his body should be hurting but the man above him has gentle hands even though they look like they were made out of marble and his eyes glimmer in the night as he thrusts forward, carving his way into Isak’s body and making him remember what it's like to feel.

He hadn’t cried in what feels like years but there are now tears streaming down his flushed cheeks because God, it's been so long since anyone had touched him with anything other than selfishness and the man only wipes the drops away and kisses the trail they had left behind before whispers of praise soothe Isak’s wounded heart.

Isak is 18 and the man whose name remains unknown makes him feel loved for the first time in years even though their moments together only last for less than an hour and all he can think about is how the orgasm wracking through his body is nothing compared to the beauty of the man's smile.

 _It’s okay,_ he says, _for he cannot keep him but the memories will always be his._

_and it's nice enough to_

_make a man_

_weep, but I don't_

_weep, do_

_you?_

Isak is still 18 and the coffee on the table is stale and cold but he drinks it anyway and the foul taste feels better than the clenching of his lungs and the pounding in his head.

There’s a flash of blond in the corner of the cafe and for the first time Isak wishes to look up from his book and see the world around him.

But the fear enveloping him is stronger than any desire he had ever had and so his eyes trail over the blurry letters before him and the sentences swirl on the pages until they look like a different language that Isak does not understand and he is just about to put the book away and find a different distraction from the ache when a shadow covers the table and the coffee is forgotten and all he can think about is how that cologne is so fucking familiar it almost hurts.

 _Hello,_ he says and Isak looks up, blue eyes shimmering in the sun, _I’ve been looking all over for you._

Isak is 21 and he does not remember the last time he had smiled without forcing himself to do so.

 _It’s okay,_ he says, _for the man whose touch doesn't make him recoil is named Even._

**Author's Note:**

> This was in my drafts and I'd never posted but I figured, why not? 
> 
> I'm not in the fandom anymore but there's no point in keeping this in my drafts as I rather like it. I also haven't read it for a while so there may be some mistakes, sorry 'bout that!
> 
> Comment whatever you want, if you have any thoughts I'd love to hear 'em!


End file.
